


Pulse

by Siria



Category: Thoughtcrimes
Genre: Challenge: Porn Battle V, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-19
Updated: 2008-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:16:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mueller leaves them tied up, arranged just like all the couples he's murdered so far: pressed close, cheek to cheek, Brendan's arms wrapped around her in a parody of comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pulse

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle V

Mueller leaves them tied up, arranged just like all the couples he's murdered so far: pressed close, cheek to cheek, Brendan's arms wrapped around her in a parody of comfort. He pats Freya on the head before he leaves the warehouse, strokes her hair, and she flinches away from the contact, hating the way it sharpens the brush of his mind against hers. He's nothing but blood and the stench of rot and the image of a timer counting down from ten minutes; nothing that she doesn't know already, and nothing she wants to see again.

Freya can hear the distant wail of sirens; help is on its way, but there's a lot of ground to cover, a lot of buildings to search, and they only have nine minutes before Freya finds out if her mind will know Brendan's suffering when he dies.

She wriggles against him, trying to get the ropes to slacken just enough to let her reach the Swiss Army knife she knows Brendan—good Boy Scout to the last—always carries in his coat pocket. Freya's curling her fingers into the heavy wool of the pocket when she feels it—Brendan's hard against her hip. She pulls back, startled, looks up to see him flush a deep red.

"Adrenaline," he says gruffly, looking over her shoulder at the bare brick of the far wall, "Can we not—it happens, okay?"

"Sure, I—sure," Freya stammers, her own cheeks heating in an echo of the mortification she feel coming off him in waves. She redoubles her efforts, stretching her wrist awkwardly so she can hook the knife with her index finger and pull it towards her. When she has it, she almost cuts herself in her haste to open it; the first loop of cord takes a while to fray, the second is easier, and then it's tangling around their feet as they run, four minutes and counting, for the door.

Freya can feel Brendan hesitate, a half-formed thought about going back and trying to disarm it—_it's always the red wire, isn't it? plenty of time, we've g_—and she wraps her hand around his wrist and tugs him across the lot. They reach the gate just in time to see the lights of the approaching cop cars and to feel the explosion's roaring heat at their backs.

Harper's out of his car almost before it stops, making sure they're okay and asking what the hell kind of stupid stunt they were pulling by going after Mueller alone. Brendan shrugs and makes some inane crack that has Harper gearing up for a truly spectacular fit of rage. Freya smoothes things over with diplomatic words and bright smiles, suggesting she and Brendan take the rest of the day off and fill in the inevitable paperwork tomorrow; she doesn't think either of them will be fit for much anyway, and she'd rather prevent Harper from suffering an aneurysm.

He lets out a breath and nods, letting them go. Freya thanks him and leaves, pulling Brendan in her wake, heading off in the direction of where they'd left the car, when Brendan decided the hell with the stake-out, he was going in. Around the corner, she pulls him to a stop, ready to give him the mother of all lectures because Jesus Christ, Harper was right, and he doesn't even know that Brendan was thinking of running back in there like some idiot errant.

But Brendan leans down, cupping her cheek in one hand, and kisses her before she can draw breath to speak: a kiss that starts out hard and frantic, a kiss that slows til their lips barely touch, and Freya can feel the stutter of each breath of his against her lips. "What—?" she says, dazed, because this close, his body's warm and his eyes are bright and his thoughts are making her shiver.

"Probably shouldn't have done that," he says sheepishly, pulling back, taking her reaction for refusal. "Let's just forget I—"

"No," Freya says; she wraps her arms around his neck and stands up on tip-toe to kiss him again, sliding her tongue into his mouth and scratching at the sensitive nape of his neck with her fingernails. She wonders what he'd think if he could see her thoughts right now, if he knew what she was planning to do with him once they got back to her apartment—the plans she had for him against the door, on her couch, in her bed—if that blush on his cheeks would be hot beneath her lips. "No," she says, lips curling up into a wicked smile as she walks backwards towards the car, leading him with her, "I got it. Adrenaline."


End file.
